The Curse of Wetherley House Page 9

  As I start making my way across the lawn, the man stops walking and seems almost to be waiting for me, just beyond the treeline.

  Glancing over my shoulder, I see that the house is still completely dark. I am still, however, well within screaming and running distance. When I turn back to look at the man, I see now that he is well-dressed and fairly respectable-looking, which emboldens me somewhat. Had he turned out to be some kind of hobo, I would surely have hurried back toward the house by now, although I still slow my pace as I get to the end of the lawn, and I am ready to scream and fight back if necessary.

  I take a couple more steps toward him, still looking after the maggot in my hands, and then I realize I am now probably close enough for the man to hear my voice.

  “Who are you?” I ask, making sure to stand up straight so that I look as tough as possible.

  “Who am I?” he replies, with a strong accent. Maybe French. He hesitates, before stepping forward across the grass and then stopping again. He seems to be eyeing me very carefully. “I was going to ask you the same question,” he continues, “but now I see there is no need. It's uncommonly brave of a young lady to come out alone from a house to greet a complete stranger.” He pauses. “You're tough. Unafraid. You look so much like her.”

  “I look very little like my mother,” I tell him.

  “Says who?”

  “Says me.”

  “Do you mean that you have seen -”

  He pauses again, and then he nods as if he understands something.

  “You mean the woman in the house,” he continues. “Mrs. Eve Carmichael?”

  “She is my mother, yes. And my father is home too, so you needn't be thinking of making a scene. What are you doing out here, anyway?”

  “What am I doing?” He seems to find this funny, and he lets out a faint belly laugh. “I suppose you could say that I am checking the area out, in advance of perhaps making some inquiries and -”

  He frowns as he looks at my hands.

  “What in the name of all that's holy,” he continues, “are you doing?”

  “That's none of your concern.”

  “None of my -”

  He hesitates again, before shaking his head as if he has given up trying to understand.

  “My name is Henri Alesi,” he explains. “Does that name mean anything to you?”

  “Should it?”

  “Not the Henri part, perhaps, but the Alesi part should definitely mean something. If it does not, then this is a terrible shame and it must be rectified as quickly as possible.”

  “Who are you,” I ask again, “and why are you out here in our garden in the middle of the night?”

  “Your garden, Mademoiselle.”

  “What?”

  “You said our garden, as if you meant all of you who live in that house. But in truth, the garden and all of this rightly belongs to you. After all, you are your father's sole heir. Your mother's, too.”

  “I...”

  My voice trails off for a moment as I try to work out what he means.

  “What is your name?” he continues.

  “I'm not sure I want to tell you.”

  “Humor me.”

  “My...” I take a deep breath. “My name is Mary, if you must know.”

  “Mary? Well, Mary, you look very much like your mother indeed. Here, let me show you.” Reaching into his pocket, he takes out a faded old photograph and holds it out for me to see. “Take it. It's yours.”

  “That's not my mother,” I point out, able to see the cracked image of a woman from here. “That's just...”

  Again, my voice trails off as I realize that the woman looks strangely familiar. Or not familiar, exactly, but as if I have seen her face somewhere before, or a similar face. For a moment, I cannot fathom where, before finally I realize that I have on several occasions seen that face staring back at me from the mirror. She looks very, very much like me.

  “Her name was Marguerite Henriette Alesi,” the man explains. “Surely you know that name?”

  Shaking my head, I keep my eyes fixed on the photograph.

  “No?” he continues. “They kept even that from you? Well, I can't say that I blame them. She was my sister, and I have come a very long way to ascertain the circumstances of her death. I have come from France, because to date the answers we have been given have been entirely unsatisfactory. Letter after letter, filled with evasive claims and signed by Mrs. Carmichael and a Doctor Edge, whoever he might be. I promised our father on his deathbed just a few months ago that I would get to the truth, and now here I am. Letters be damned.”

  “Well,” I reply, “I don't know any Marguerite Henriette Alesi, and I think you should go away now.”

  “We know her death was painful,” he replies. “In Paris, we engaged the services of a person who can speak to the dead. After much effort, she was able to draw the spirit of dear Marguerite to our company. She spoke of pain. Indescribable pain as her child was ripped from her. She was weeping, even in death, and she kept talking about the cold ground. It seems she was not buried on church land, but somewhere common and indecent. She spoke of endless ice and darkness. She implored us to put right what had gone wrong, and to save her child.” He pauses again, and now there seem to be tears in her eyes. “That child is you, my dear.”

  I shake my head.

  “Oh, it is. This is not the first night I have been out here in the forest, watching the house.”

  “Well, you shouldn't have been.”

  “My sister is buried somewhere here,” he continues.

  “You're not -”

  “I hear her scream even now.”

  I open my mouth to tell him that he's out of his mind, but those last words catch my attention.

  “A silent scream,” he adds, “but somehow louder than any I have ever heard before. It's here in this forest, I can feel it. Can you not feel it too?”

  “I don't know what you're talking about,” I tell him.

  “Really? That is a surprise.”

  “I think you should leave,” I continue, taking a step back. “If I see you on this property again, I'll make sure Father calls the police. You told me your name, so I shouldn't cause any bother if I were you.” Turning, I start walking back toward the house, but suddenly he grabs my arm from behind and I spin back around and look up at him.

  “You belong with your real family,” he tells me, “not with these impostors. Your aunt is just -”

  “I don't have an aunt,” I reply, “and you must let go of me right now or I shall scream.”

  “Eve Carmichael is not your mother,” he continues. “Not by birth. My sister Marguerite was your mother, which makes me your uncle, and I am starting to see that something very sinister must be going on here. Wetherley House and all the rest of your father's estate should rightfully be yours.”

  “My father is very much alive and well,” I tell him.

  “Your father died before you were born. You must come with me immediately, and then -””

  “No!”

  Pulling my arm free, I stumble back and fall, landing hard on the ground. The man reaches for me again, but I pull away and struggle to my feet before quickly racing back toward the house. I don't dare look over my shoulder, and finally I clatter up the steps to the back door and reach the kitchen, at which point I turn and slam the door shut with such force that it rattles loudly. To my relief, I see that the man is already trampling back into the forest, having evidently decided not to follow me, but my heart is pounding and I can't get his awful words out of my head. His claims were utterly ridiculous, and yet -

  Suddenly a naked woman lunges at the door from the other side, screeching and smashing her hands through the glass. Startled, I step back and bump against the table, but already the woman is gone and the glass is undamaged, even though I still hear her cry echoing in my thoughts.

  A moment later, I look at my hands and realize that I dropped my maggot friend somewhere outside. Still, I'm sure he'll be
okay. As I stare at the door, I realize I can see another face staring at me. For a few seconds, I think it might be the woman from the photograph, but then I realize I'm wrong.

  It's just my reflection.

  Mary

  I so rarely get a chance to leave the house and come into town. Mother has taken to her bed this morning, however, and Father is away on business, so I have been able to slip away. Now, as I reach the edge of town and see the busy market square up ahead, I feel as if I have come to a completely different world.

  “Careful, now!” a woman calls out, and I turn to see that she's pushing a large pram across the street while trying to avoid a ball that some boys are throwing. “Mind out for others!”

  As she gets closer, I see that the pram contains not one, not two, but three newborn babies, each wearing a pink bonnet. The children stare straight at me and I smile, but a moment later I look up at the woman's face and see that she's watching me with a faint scowl.

  “Good morning,” I say, hoping she might let me meet her babies properly.

  “Morning,” she mutters, but she noticeably changes course as if she wishes to avoid me, and I turn and watch as she pushes the pram into the yard of the Trin glass factory. A moment later, the wooden gate is pushed shut, as if to let me know in on uncertain terms that I must not follow.

  “Nice weather,” I mumble, although I suppose she can't hear me now.

  Heading further along the street, I see that several stalls have been set up in the square, with local farmers selling their wares. I've heard about the market, but Mother has never let me come to visit before, so I cannot help but feel somewhat awed by the sight of so much wonderful produce. There are dead chickens and ducks hanging from hooks, and one stall even has pig heads all laid out on display. I can't even imagine what one would do with a pig's head, but I suppose it could be used to make some kind of meal and I wouldn't mind trying some day. Stepping closer, I see that the pigs' eyes are open, and I can't help wondering what it was like for them when they died. I know they were probably just dumb, brutish animals, but -

  “That's her!”

  “What's she doing here?”

  Hearing a series of astonished whispers nearby, I turn away from the pigs and see that several women are watching me from next to one of the other stalls. From the expressions on their faces, it's clear that they're shocked and appalled by something, and after a moment I glance over my shoulder, in case I'm mistaken and they're actually looking at someone else. Seeing nobody, however, I turn back to the women and see that they're still staring in my direction. A ripple of discomfort runs through my chest, and I instinctively step out of sight.

  I can still hear them, though.

  They're whispering about me.

  Ducking down, I make my way around a couple of the stalls, edging closer to the women until finally I dare to pop up on their other side. They have their backs to me now, and a couple of them are craning their necks as if they're trying to work out where I've gone. Evidently they have no idea that I'm behind them now.

  “Can you imagine?” one of them asks. “I never thought I'd see the day when that little beast would come swanning into town. Doesn't she have enough space up there at that wretched house?”

  “Madness is hereditary, you know,” one of the others replies. She's wearing a black hat with a large orange feather. “Her mother went insane, and the girl will go the same way.”

  “What did they do with the mother, anyway?”

  “Bedlam, I suppose. Or one of the other asylums.”

  “Do you think she... Well, I mean, would she even be alive anymore?”

  “If she went to Bedlam? I doubt it. Besides, you're forgetting one thing. I was there on that awful day when the naked woman came rushing into the house. I don't mean to cast aspersions, but let me tell you that I saw her being taken away, and I saw her being carried in a wheelbarrow toward the forest.”

  “The forest? Why would they take her there?”

  “Well, that's my point exactly. If you ask me, the wretch might never have made it to Bedlam at all. Then again, it's often better that way. There's no point keeping the mad alive. They just -”

  Suddenly she begins to turn, as if she's heard me.

  I duck down, hoping against hope that I wasn't spotted.

  “The mad are best killed,” she continues after a moment. “I mean, what do they have to offer? Nothing. And if you ask me, that little brat should go the same way, sooner rather than later. Marguerite Alesi was mad, and her offspring will be the same.”

  Marguerite Alesi.

  There's that name again.

  “You don't really think Wetherley House is cursed, do you?” one of the other women says, and I duck down further as I realize they're coming this way. “It used to be so lovely up there in the summer.”

  “I shouldn't like to find out,” the first woman replies. She sounds so full of herself, so certain that she's right. “It'd be best all round if the place were to be knocked down, but I doubt that'll happen any time soon. Money's money, and from what I hear, the Carmichael family flatters to deceive in that department. Ever since Robert Carmichael sank all his inheritance into that silly glass factory, they haven't had two shillings to rub together and -”

  “Oi! You! Outta there!”

  Suddenly the head of a broom slams against my shoulder, and I turn to find a large, dirty man towering over me. Before I can tell him that I'm not a thief, he hits me again, and I'm barely able to crawl out from behind the stall before the broom cracks against my shoulder. Bumping against another stall, I stumble to my feet and run a couple of paces, before tripping and slamming down into the mud.

  “It's her!” a woman calls out from nearby. “It's that little brute from the house!”

  Turning, I see that the gossiping women are watching me with a mixture of fascination and horror, while the man with the broom is coming for me again.

  “We don't want your kind here!” he yells, swinging at me but missing this time as I duck and scurry away through the dirty. “Clear off! If I see you loitering near my stall again, I'll have your hide for leather, do you hear?”

  “I was just -”

  He swings at me again, this time hitting my waist, and I cry out in pain as I run away. I can hear the women muttering excitedly about me, as if they see me as some kind of oddity that'd be better off in a freak-show, but I don't stick around to hear any more of their gossip. Instead I run along the first street I find, even though I don't exactly know where I'm going. Stumbling several times, I start sobbing as I reach the next corner, and then I hurry down an alley before dropping onto the ground and finally letting myself sob. I feel so stupid and so weak for crumbling so easily, and after a moment I let out a gasp of frustration.

  I should have torn their bally hats off and stomped on them.

  Slamming my fists against the dirty cobbles, I feel a rush of rage running through my chest, but hurting my hands only makes everything worse. Finally I wipe tears from my cheeks and lean back against the wall.

  And then I realize I can hear footsteps nearby.

  Turning, I see that a kitchen hand has just come out from the rear of the inn, carrying a bucket of soapy water.

  “You alright there, love?” she asks. “You'd best not stick around here. This water's dirty and it's about to spill all over.”

  “Sorry,” I stammer, struggling to my feet. “I just...”

  “Has a boy been mean to you?” she continues with a faint smile. “Don't let it get you down, my little petal. Boys are only ever after one thing, and at your age you're too young, despite what people in some places might say. You're right to run away.”

  “I'm not running from boys,” I tell her, still a little breathless. “I'm running from...”

  My voice trails off for a moment. I don't want this woman to be disgusted by me, but at the same time I also want to ask her what she knows.

  “I'm from Wetherley House,” I continue finally. “Do you know it?�
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  She hesitates. “Aye,” she says finally, a little cautiously, “I know it.”

  “And what do you know, exactly?”

  She glances over her shoulder, as if she's worried about us being overheard.

  “Do you know something bad?” I ask, taking a step toward her. “Do you -”

  “Ah, now stay back, young madam,” she says, suddenly raising a hand as if to warn me away. “Don't take this the wrong way, but I'd rather not meddle in anything that's beyond me, if you know what I mean.”

  “No,” I reply, “I don't know what you mean.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Thirteen,” I tell her, which is only a lie by a few months. “Old enough to hear the truth, I reckon.”

  “Is that right?”

  I nod.

  “And have you asked your... Well, have you asked the people you live with?”

  “I don't think they'd want to tell me.”

  She laughs a throaty, genuine laugh.

  “Well, no,” she manages to say finally, “I don't suppose they would. There are plenty of people around this town who have bad feelings regarding Wetherley House. They're worried that some of what's in that place might leak out and change things down here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You really don't know, do you?”

  “I don't know anything,” I reply. “I didn't realize until today, I didn't think there was anything much to know. Now I realize that there's a lot I don't know, and I should very much like to know it. If you catch my drift.”

  “Aye, but you're maybe a little young still.”

  “Who was Marguerite Alesi?”

  She pauses again, before shaking her head.

  “Why was she taken to an asylum?” I continue. “Or is that not what happened? I heard some women talking in the square, but I didn't really understand what they were talking about. It's all so confusing, but I feel like there's something I should be told.”